


Blame it on Bad Luck

by 4AceOfSpades7



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anyway yeah here's my first contribution to ao3, Heavy Angst, Heavy Drinking, How Do I Tag, Suicidal Ideation, This is literally just me being angsty with Tim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:40:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28570140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4AceOfSpades7/pseuds/4AceOfSpades7
Summary: To say Tim Stoker was having a rough time was truly an understatement if you understood what he was going through. But the only problem was, no one knew except for him. And no one would understand except for him. That's how it was going to stay, huh?--------In which I literally just mess Tim up. That's it. That's the fic.
Relationships: None
Kudos: 7





	Blame it on Bad Luck

**Author's Note:**

> Please do be wary about reading this! If something here triggers you, I'm really sorry but I wrote the tags for a reason, so read them.

To say Tim Stoker was having a rough time was truly an understatement if you understood what he was going through. But the only problem was, no one knew except for him. And no one would understand except for him. That's how it was going to stay, huh?

Tim laid haphazardly across the couch, a mostly empty bottle of bourbon in his right hand and dangling just above the floor. His eyes were glued to the clock projecting the time. Only eleven and he was already drunk out of his mind. What else was new? Ten days had passed and what had happened never once slipped from his mind and it only calmed if Tim drank his mind into a haze.

So here he was. Alone and heavily drunk in his flat at eleven in the morning. And he had woken up at ten nursing a hangover. If the medicine didn't help, what was the next solution? More bloody alcohol to stop the thoughts he knew would come. The guilt, the endless guilt that he could've stopped his little brother long before this happened. He could've done something. Anything. But he let him die.

Tim had gotten many, many calls and messages in his absence from work but he never once answered any of them. He supposed sooner or later he'd have to show. Be it drunk or hungover, he'd have to make an appearance. But now, so soon and with remorse and self-reproach still heavy in him, he couldn't bring himself to get up. 

The past ten days, alone, with no brother, and no friends. The past ten days of heavy drinking to just stop thinking. To ease the pain, and ease the thoughts that destroyed him. He never once stopped to think that maybe, just maybe, this isn't his fault. Maybe his brother should have realized not to poke around where he wasn't wanted. Or maybe it was just bad luck and there was nothing Tim could have done. But no, Tim knew it wasn't true. He knew it was his own fault and that his inaction led to his brother's death. 

Why doesn't he just put an end to what caused Danny's death? Take away the person who did nothing and got a completely innocent life ripped away? The world would be better off without a person like him, right? So why was he still here? He was already destroying himself merely from the bottle in his hand and the many empty bottles in his flat. He raised the bourbon to his lips and took another sip of the now tasteless alcohol.

What could he do? All Tim wanted was to know what that thing that took his brother was. He wanted to know what he could've stopped Danny from going into. Tim sighed and heaved himself up, sitting on the edge of the couch. He closed his eyes, fighting the waves of nausea that rose in his chest. He was going to find this out. For his brother.

He stood up, downing the rest of the alcohol in the bottle he held. He looked to a nearby wall, anger from the past days threatening to bubble over. But instead, he set the bottle down on the coffee table. He headed into the bathroom and leaned himself against the sink, looking to his reflection. To the man that vaguely resembled his brother.

He stared into the tired, blue and brown eyes, and the dark bags beneath them. He looked to his tear-stained cheeks and disheveled hair. He ran his hand through his brown, unkempt hair and sighed. A shower, right. That'd do him good. But not while he's still drunk.

Tim rubbed his eyes and stood straighter, turned from the reflection. He headed into his bedroom, looking to the picture on his nightstand. A mix of conflicting emotions swelled in his chest as he looked at the photo of himself and his brother. He sat down on the edge of his bed and gently picked up the photo, fingers tracing the edge of the frame.

They had taken the photo years ago on a camping trip together. The happiness in the photo clashed with the feelings embedded in Tim's chest. Danny looked so happy… So, well, alive. He always looked so full of energy, didn't he? The light in every room. And now that light, that bright, bright light, was gone, and it was all Tim's fault. He took the photo out of the frame, holding it delicately in his hands, as though it'd break like some ancient vase if he wasn't careful. He folded the photo and slipped it into his pocket. He didn't want to lose the sparks of the light that he had. He didn't want to lose what he had left.

Tim laid himself back on the bed slowly, staring at the ceiling. How was he going to find what did this to his brother? He was certain that the thing… Joseph Grimaldi was no longer in London. Tim's minor research showed that it was part of a Russian circus but Tim had no way of finding it. Maybe, he pondered, just maybe could he go to The Magnus Institute. He knew the resources there would help him. But he wouldn't be able to get the resources without working there.

Tim sighed. He may as well, he supposed. He stood up and got his shoes on, not caring about how drunk he was as he left his flat and headed to work.

. . .

How did Tim Stoker find himself here? The once successful, fun loving man who now stood in some run down house of wax, his back to the man who had been his boss. There was an ax held tight in his left hand, and in his right, held above his head, was the detonator. How did it come to this?

Tim Stoker blames himself for many, many things. He blames himself for Danny. He blames himself for Sasha. He blames himself for why he was standing here now with almost certain death right in the palm of his hand. What could he have done? 

Tim Stoker blames himself, but no. That's not the case. He couldn't have known any of this would happen to begin with. All it took was bad luck. He had said that, hadn't he? Bad luck was all that was needed to find yourself in a place like the one Tim was standing in now.

Tim Stoker blames this on bad luck. Now there was nothing that could be done to change it. All he felt in him now was dread and anger and many emotions he had kept trapped within him. Anger towards his boss. Anger towards the circus. Anger towards whatever sad excuse for a God there was that made this happen. Anger towards his bad luck. Anger towards his brother's bad luck.

Tim Stoker’s only release was in his right hand, above his head, with his fingers ready to squeeze the trigger. The thing from the circus stood before him. The creature of bad luck he could easily say took part in ruining every aspect of his life.

When the thing spoke to him, he couldn't help the twisted grin that spread across his face, knowing he would get to put an end to all of his pain once and for all. Even if he couldn't save Danny, he could hurt what took him. And so, he grinned at the pathetic mannequin. “I know.”

And his fingers clamped down onto the trigger with a final click, and white light engulfed his vision for what he knew would be the last time.

**Author's Note:**

> This is just angsty smh. Please feel free to leave critism down in the comments!


End file.
